


Goat Man

by Lenalena



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Also anxiety, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Anxiety Attacks, Broken Steve, Depression, Dubious Consent, Eventual HEA, Heavy Angst, In the meantime, M/M, POV Steve Rogers, References to Depression, Seriously I promise all will end well, Steve Rogers Has PTSD, This fic is just a ray of fucking sunshine!, Tony Has Issues, Tony Stark has PTSD, Wow, enjoy all the enthusiastic fucking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-03-01 13:21:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13295748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenalena/pseuds/Lenalena
Summary: "Airco," Steve blurts."What?""I have airco.""Well. Congratulations," says Goat Man. "Do you want a prize?"





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a WIP and it will likely be a WIP for a long, long time. It took me several years to write this first chapter, because I have to be in a really odd mood to write this story, and most of the time I am not. But I finally got this part to a point where it can pass as a short story with a -really- open ending, so I am sending it out into the world. Maybe that will help me keep up somewhat of a momentum on this (I use the term 'momentum' very loosely, it has really taken more than 2 years to get this far). I feel like I am walking a very fine line between angst and melodrama here, and it's going to take time to get it right. 
> 
> For those of you who've read my other works, this is more similar to 'Strays' than to anything else I've written. 
> 
> If I haven't completely scared you off yet, I hope you enjoy it and let me know what you think!
> 
> Thanks to Kate and Buhfly for the beta!
> 
> _____________________________________________

Steve's driveway has suddenly acquired a single occupancy trailer park. Technically, the trailer isn't in his driveway, per se, he can still park his mom's old minivan, but it is so close to it it might as well be. Steve's house, the house that used to be his mom's until she died and Steve moved in temporarily to take care of her dogs, until he could figure out what to do with them. He still hasn't figured it out, only it's been years and just one of the dogs is still alive. That house abuts the open space where the hills are golden and dry in the late summer. The access road to the open space is right next to Steve's driveway.

Normally, this isn't an issue. Lots of people use the road to walk their dogs. So does Steve on the days Gwenna seems to want more than just a cool spot to sleep in. Groups of retired people use it, loaded up with high tech water bottles and floppy hats and ski poles. They seem to take their hiking as seriously as their previous jobs. There's the rare tourist that has wandered out of San Francisco on some quest to walk around the entire bay. And mountain bikers, quite a few of those. But that is pretty much it. A couple of times a year city workers come with large noisy machines to redo the fire breaks, and the rest of time Steve just gets to enjoy the sunsets that bathe the hills in rosy colors and the smell of fennel. But now there is a beat up trailer parked on the side of the access road.

It hadn't been there this morning, when he left for work. He had a bad night last night, worse than usual, his dreams full of blood and Bucky screaming, and he had woken up drenched in sweat with the smell of gunpowder in his nose, his heart beating overtime. He hadn't dared to go back to sleep so he'd sketched till dawn. Then he'd choked down some coffee in the hopes it would clear his head and torn up all the drawings he'd done. They were shit anyway, like everything else he'd done since he came back from Afghanistan. He'd left for the high school with a persistent little headache brewing, which had steadily gotten worse during the day, due to some particularly unmotivated students and it had reached its peak at the department meeting after school, where, just like every single year before, he had to explain you could not teach an art class without a budget for art supplies. And that those supplies never actually went down in price.

And now he's home from school and there's a trailer in his driveway. Steve gets out of his mom's car and studies the flotsam and jetsam around the trailer. A rusty bicycle leans against what looks like an old kiddie pool. Off to the side sits a rickety camping chair, a folding table, a dolly, several trash bins, and a pile of hoses. The clothes line stretching from the trailer to Steve's fence has a grimy towel and a plaid shirt thrown over it. There is no owner in sight and Steve wonders if he should call the local police department. Surely there are zoning laws that forbid people to just set up trailers in the suburbs. Not that he wants to be the guy who kicks out some poor vagabond or migrant worker, but come on, the thing is practically in his driveway. Steve wonders if he actually remembered to lock his sliding doors this morning. He hopes he did.

Gwenna's bark breaks into his thoughts. It's coming from the back yard, that she has access to through the doggy door. She barks rarely enough that Steve makes haste getting into and through his mom's house. He didn't lock the sliding doors and he tells himself he needs to be more careful. When he steps into the back yard, the old girl is standing by the waist high chicken wire fence, barking at a... goat. A big brown goat that is ignoring her, while trying to get to the leaves of the Mexican sage that is planted all along the fence. Steve stares at the goat. Did the trailer vagrant bring a pet? His livestock? He hears bleating, but from further away and when he looks up from the brown goat, the nearest hillside turns out to be awash in goats. Big ones, little ones, brown ones, black ones, spotted ones. There's a makeshift orange plastic fence confining them to the one side of the hill and all except the one trying to denude Steve's mom's sage are happily munching away at the dry grasses. Steve can't imagine somebody has had the audacity to set up an illegal goat farm behind his mom's house, so he wonders what the hell is going on. The goats can't answer him, though, so he goes back inside to make himself and Gwenna some food.

Around 8 pm the previous night's lack of sleep catches up with him and when he finds himself nodding off in front of the tv, he decides to just go to bed. Gwenna has already relocated to the foot of the bed. Steve gets into a fresh pair of pajamas, since he sweated through the previous pair, and climbs into his twin bed. Just when his head hits the pillow, the loud noise of an engine starts right under his window. He jack-knifes back up and swears. The hell?! Padding over to the window he realizes he is looking straight down onto the top of the trailer. There are some badly rusted spots on its roof and Steve thinks the goat man should be praying for the drought to last. The noise comes from a generator. Soft lamplight spills through the tattered curtains of the trailer's windows, so Steve's new neighbor must be home. He briefly considers going over to demand he shut down the noisy thing, but it's only eight pm and Steve doesn't like... confrontations. Then he considers moving to his mother's bedroom on the other side of the house, where he won't be able to hear it. He's considered it before; it seems weird to still be sleeping in his boyhood bed, while there is a perfectly fine California King bed with a pillow top mattress elsewhere in the house. It's not like she died in the bed, she died in a car crash. Still, he wasn't ready before and he isn't ready now. Cursing himself for his paralyzing inertia, he grabs another pillow out of the linen closet and wedges his head between the pillows to block out the sound. It takes him hours to fall asleep. At least he doesn't dream.

 

***

 

The next day is Saturday and the goats are still there. Steve watches them silently while he drinks his morning coffee, Gwenna laying by his feet. None of the goats are close, so she doesn't feel the need to defend her house. It is kind of peaceful to watch the animals' aimless wandering as they search out the next shrub to eat. There is a cluster of them a couple hundred yards away, around what looks to be the beat up kiddie pool Steve spotted yesterday. Apparently that is how they get their water. He thinks he sees a tan man with black hair on the other side of the cluster, but the goats kind of block the view.

Two hours later he is still watching the goats. They have lazily meandered first to one corner of their enclosure, then to another, never giving the impression that they are moving as a group, yet they all seem to choose to stay within some unspecified distance from each other. None of them wander off alone for too long, and if one does, the whole group will eventually gravitate that way. Steve feels calm in a way he can't remember feeling in forever. It is different from the inertia, this feels almost meditative. When hunger finally drives him back inside, he is surprised to find himself smiling.

***

The generator comes on again that evening. Steve stands by his window for a long time, his forehead resting against the glass, watching the trailer. It is one of those early September evenings that are more sultry than anything they ever have during summer vacation, when the mornings are cold with the fog rolling in from the bay and the afternoons struggle to break free of that marine layer. Right around the time school starts back up is when the Bay Area weather remembers it is supposed to be summer and starts producing triple digit days and overly warm evenings. Goat Man can't possibly have air conditioning and Steve imagines he must have a number of fans going full blast inside that poorly insulated tin can. The curtains are fluttering again and tinny radio music spills out the opened windows together with that same golden lamplight from the night before. The music is something with guitars and Steve is vaguely surprised the man isn't listening to one of the Mariachi stations that are a dime a dozen in the Central Valley, about an hour east of them. Most of those compete quite ferociously with all the San Francisco alt-rock stations. There is one corner, out by the refinery, where KFOG always gets drowned out for a minute by rapid Spanish commentary on his way to the grocery store.

Goat Man is restless tonight. Steve can see his shadow passing by the trailer window and notices the almost imperceptible sway of the trailer as the man paces. Or whatever he is doing. Steve wonders why he doesn't go outside to pace, the evening is nice enough now and with the moon over the hills it really isn't too dark. But maybe he spends enough of his day outside with his goats and he craves the intimacy of his trailer at night. He's probably so used to the shabbiness that it feels like home in spite of that.

Then the door of the trailer opens and Steve hastily steps back, out of the line of sight. His heart is hammering in his chest, but he doesn't know why. It's his own house, his own window and that damned trailer shouldn't even be in his driveway. But he still feels like he almost got caught looking at naked neighbors through a telescope. He goes to bed and listens to the generator and the snatches of music coming through his window until the wee hours of the morning.

***

 

He has a hard time getting up early Sunday morning, after three bad nights in a row. He makes himself do it anyway because it is going to be another scorcher today and if he sleeps in his usual Sunday run on the trail behind his house will be seriously uncomfortable. Not that he hasn't done worse, in fatigues and with a full pack, in Afghanistan, but he didn't enjoy that then and he doesn't enjoy it now. And he has nothing left to prove in that department. Still he feels guilty somehow for not waiting until the temperature nears the triple digits. The plastic orange fence runs along one side of the trail for about half a mile, before the trail veers off to the left, leaving the fence to run along a hillside, but he can only spot a few goats. He wonders if one of his neighbors left their back gate open and the goats are eating their wastefully watered lawn. The one time he left his own back gate open, he was visited by a family of deer. They were kind of cute, but Gwenna almost had a conniption and his mom's flower beds suffered a lot, so now he is more careful about closing it. Despite the early hour, he is still drenched in sweat when he gets back. He glances surreptitiously at the trailer, under the guise of wiping the sweat off his forehead with the hem of his shirt, as he walks past it on his way back, his breath still ragged. Is it even safe to have those canisters of gasoline sitting out next to the generator in this heat? Right next to his mom's fence? At least the generator isn't on at the moment. He still worries about it all the way to the shower.

 

***

 

The generator roars to life at 5 pm. Steve jerks out of the chair where he's been reading for the past hour. It takes a minute for his heartbeat to come back down to normal. Before it is all the way there, the screaming guitar music starts back up and causes another uptick. Steve tries to settle back down and tells himself Goat Man needs the generator to run his fans, that otherwise he might suffocate in that trailer, but it is no use. The idea of having to listen to this racket for the next seven or eight hours is going to give him a migraine. He dithers for bit. He is going to say something, he's not going to say anything, he is, he isn't. Then the music gets louder and that decides it. Enough is enough.

The heat hits him in the face when he steps outside. It's easy to forget exactly how hot it is when you have air conditioning. He hesitates for a second, but decides he's got to say something. Surely they have plenty of days this hot in Mexico.

Goat Man is squatting by a heap of electrical cords and Steve can only see his back. The old grey t-shirt is wet between the shoulder blades and the size of the dark pit stains is impressive. Short damp strands of dark brown hair stick to the back his neck. The cargo shorts are pulled tight around his ass by his position and Steve swallows hard at the way they dip down in the back showing a strip of black underwear and a sliver of moist tan skin where the t-shirt got rucked up and sticks to the man's trim, muscled back. Steve wants to touch that skin, knowing it will be sticky and he should find that gross, but he doesn't. He wants to slide his hands over that ass, too. This freaks him out, because he can't remember the last time he wanted to touch anyone that way. It was before, no _, in_ Afghanistan. He thought his libido had died with Bucky, but here it is, coming back online for a sweaty, no doubt smelly stranger. As novel as it is to realize he isn't dead below the belt, it's inconvenient right now, so he is going to ignore it. It's not like he is going to make a pass at Goat Man.

He waits for Goat Man to notice him, but it doesn't happen.

"Hola," he tries. "Como estas?"

The man jumps up like he's been shot with a slingshot and he rounds on Steve with his fists balled and his teeth bared. Steve's reaction to the sudden threat is just as explosive. Finding air where the reflexive grab of his hand reaches for a gun that he hasn't worn in over two years, he jumps into a fighting stance, arms raised. He is about to step forward and punch the man in the face, when he realizes what he's doing and forces himself to breathe instead. This is why he hates confrontations.

He is staring at a slightly shorter man with expressive brown eyes, who seems to be going through his own internal struggle to keep his temper at bay. Their breaths mingle heavily in the hot afternoon air and Steve imagines he can hear the man's heart thundering as loudly as his own in the protracted silence. Then Goat Man lowers his fists a fraction and Steve follows suit. Slowly, they both straighten up, eyes still locked. Steve feels like he ought to apologize, although he is not sure for what. He opens his mouth to speak when Goat Man lifts an admonishing finger and glares at him.

"Don't ever, _ever_ , sneak up on me like that again." The accent is obviously New York. Steve spent a few months there after his discharge, thinking the hustle and bustle would distract him enough to manage his newfound anxiety, but it had been a disaster. Too much noise, too much aggression, too many assholes. Too many sirens at night. Then his mom had died and he had come home to make the arrangements and here he still is. Here he is feeling stupid for the assumption that a goat herd in a dilapidated trailer could be nothing but Mexican.

"Sorry," he manages. For the sneaking and the assuming and the embarrassingly bad Spanish.

"The fuck do you want anyway?" Goat Man is barely mollified, tension still rolling off him. Steve is struggling not to respond in kind. He should walk away, a tactical retreat, so he can let the adrenalin die down and regain his calm. But he can't seem to move. The man before him is dirty, sweaty, angry and fascinating. He is at least a decade older than Steve, but the muscles in his arms and shoulders are hard. The arrogance in his face and stance, so incongruous for a man who herds goats for a living, is softened by the fine lines around his eyes and mouth. The sweat stain on the front of his shirt matches the one on his back.

"Airco," Steve blurts.

"What?"

"I have airco."

"Well. Congratulations," says Goat Man. "Do you want a prize?"

His disdain couldn't be clearer and Steve should really walk away now because the guy is obviously a dick and Steve owes him nothing. Except that he still feels guilty for expecting him to be an immigrant with minimal English skills.

His mom was always exasperated by the burdens Steve took on out of what she called a misplaced sense of guilt, and he knows this, but yet again, Steve can't _not_ barrel on.

"No. I mean. You should come inside. Cool off."

Now the man looks at Steve as if he is soft in the head and Steve gets a feeling he does that to a lot of people. In this case it is justified, since Steve doesn't want this man to come into his house, but here is inviting him in anyway.

"You want me to come inside?" Incredulity drips from every syllable.

 _No, I don't_ , Steve thinks, but "Yes," is what he says. And: "You could take a shower." What the hell is wrong with him?! He doesn't want this man in his shower. Except he kind of does, but in a totally unacceptable way. He hastily puts the clothes back on the man in his mind's eye, but that only leads to: "You could do laundry." Surely it is the heat that makes him feel like his head could explode any minute now. “You could turn off your generator.”

That, at least, proves Steve hasn't taken complete leave of his senses.

"You..."

Goat Man is speechless. The awkwardness increases exponentially as the silence stretches and Steve has to stop himself from shuffling his feet. He forces himself into parade rest and meeting the disbelief in the brown eyes head on.

"Of course, if you'd rather stay out here and sweat some more..."

"No." Goat Man seems to suddenly have made up his mind. "No, soldier boy, you made me an offer I can't refuse. Best offer I've had in years. Gimme a sec, I'll grab the laundry."

Steve questions his own sanity anew when the man turns around to walk back to the trailer, but then he gets distracted by the shape of his ass in the cargo shorts as he climbs into it. The radio turns off. Goat Man returns just a few moments later with a laundry sack over his shoulder and a roll of what Steve presumes are clean clothes in the other hand. He jumps down gracefully and closes and locks the trailer door.

"Hang on, let me shut off the generator."

"Please do," mumbles Steve, but with the sharp look the man throws him he thinks he must have heard. Which is fine, because honestly, Steve doesn't feel as bad about the whole invitation thing, now that it means both sources of noise pollution have been silenced. That was his goal, after all, so he got what he wanted. That he also got a stranger in his house suddenly doesn't seem so high a price to pay.

 

It's not so bad at first. Steve introduces himself and Goat Man's name turns out to be Tony. There is an awkward moment when Tony comes into the living room and takes in Steve's mom's Hummel figurine collection. He obviously has an opinion on grown men and Hummel, but thankfully he says nothing. Steve shows him the washer and the shower and then he gets about twenty minutes to settle back in with his book.

He doesn't even manage to read one sentence in that time, convinced as he almost is that he can hear Tony undressing, that he can hear the water hitting his skin, even the soap sluicing down his torso. Not to mention the way the man must be sliding his hands up and down his body to distribute the soap, washing his... He stares fixedly at the words on the page, deliberately not thinking about Goat Man's dick, but the words aren't making any sense at all. It is almost a relief when Tony comes back in, toweling his hair dry. Except that he is wearing low slung lounge pants and a wife beater that is just a little short and his happy trail in the gap is still sporting drops of water. Steve tries not to stare, but it is the most difficult thing he has ever done. Tony drapes the towel over his shoulders and looks at Steve, who determinedly keeps his eyes on his face.

"So," Tony starts, "what's for dinner, babydoll?"

What?

Steve's mind blanks. Dinner? _What?_ He glances at the clock. It's almost six pm, it's a valid question. It's just that he hasn't figured on cooking for the guy. But it's not like he can fix himself dinner and let Tony just watch him eat. That would be worse.

"Uhhh... pasta?"

Tony makes a face.

"What's wrong with pasta?" Steve wants to know.

"Nothing. But it is the one thing I can easily make in the trailer and when you eat it 5 times a week, it gets a little old. Is there something you can put in that fancy oven of yours? Some nights I _dream_ of casseroles."

Steve doubts Tony ever dreams of anything as mundane as casseroles, the man seems more... haunted than that. But then he also seems like the kind of guy who weaves a lot of bullshit in with the serious stuff so he can claim it is all bullshit if he gets called on anything. Like, right now, if Steve were to scoff at him for making demands for food he wasn't even entitled to, he could pass it all off as a joke, even if the sight of one more plate of pasta would truly make him gag. And maybe it's because he's been perving on the man, or maybe it's for reasons better not too closely examined, but Steve finds that he doesn't want to blow him off, even if he thinks Tony would respect him more if he did. Steve has no heart for that kind of machismo though.

"Pasta is the only thing I have, but I can make a pasta casserole?"

"Put lots of cheese on top. And breadcrumbs!" Tony plops himself on the couch and picks up Steve's book with a disdainful look on his face.

Steve doesn't know why he is smiling as he puts together a sort of improvised version of chicken tetrazzini, while Tony loudly deplores Steve's taste in books. It's not like Steve feels he needs to defend the literary merits of Tom Clancy. After he pushes the dish in the oven and sets the timer, he slices up some tomatoes and then he plucks his book out of Tony's hands and sits back down in his chair.

"Hey! I was reading that!"

"You were hating on it. Go find yourself another book, there's a book case in the family room." Steve points him in the right direction and goes back to his crappy but entertaining book.

Tony eventually comes back and throws himself on the couch with his feet on the armrest. He cracks open a copy of Wicked. Steve stifles a snort and Tony glares at him.

"Don't judge me. That there is the bookcase of a sixty year old woman."

Steve's mom was fifty eight when she died, so Tony is pretty spot on.

"It is," nods Steve, "Enjoy your book."

He tries to get back to his own, but his eyes keep slipping to Tony, who has wantonly taken possession of the couch. Really, the man is deriving a level of hedonistic pleasure from a moderately comfortable piece of furniture that makes Steve suspect that that trailer is as dilapidated on the inside as it is on the outside. Tony is shifting constantly, burying himself deeper and deeper into the pillows, one hand on his book, one splayed on his belly. Under his shirt. Steve can't stop watching it. He imagines the feel of the skin and the happy trail under the fingers, he imagines it sliding lower, into the lounge pants. He imagines it closing around Tony's rapidly swelling dick. He has always loved stroking a man to hardness, feeling him go from soft and vulnerable to throbbing and wanting, filling his hand with need.

Steve abruptly gets up to perform an unnecessary oven check. Then he busies himself with setting the table. Usually he eats on the couch on Sundays, but that is obviously out today. He glances over to the couch, but all he can see from here is a tuft of dark hair sticking up behind the back of it. It looks soft and touchable and Steve wonders what the hell has gotten into him. What does this Goat Man have that has shattered Steve's illusion of being indifferent to sex, with pretty much nothing but a look and a bad attitude? Not that he can imagine acting on this new-found return of his libido, it is overwhelming enough even when constrained to his head.

The casserole still needs another fifteen minutes or so and Steve is searching a little desperately for something else to do that requires him to stay out of the living room. His eyes fall on the fairly wrinkly remains of some apples in his fruit bowl (Steve does the weekly shopping on Mondays after school and by Sunday the selection is a little pathetic). Before he has made a conscious decision, he is peeling and chopping apples and mixing them with raisins, lemon juice and cinnamon. Flour, oats, brown sugar and melted butter make a quick crumble topping and the dish is ready to go in the oven before the pasta is even done.

The washer buzzes almost simultaneously with the oven timer and Tony lopes off to transfer his clothes to the dryer while Steve takes out the casserole.

 

Dinner isn't half as awkward as Steve had feared. For one, it is kind of nice to see someone obviously appreciating the food you've made for them and Tony rapidly shovels down two helpings before he slows down on his third. Steve doesn't remember the last time he cooked for someone else, besides the semi-obligatory potlucks with colleagues, which are never at his mom's house. And secondly, goats turn out to be a topic that Tony can talk about at length. The firm he works for is called Goats-R-Us (“Yes, seriously. Don't look at me like that. Nobody consulted me.”) and the goats are here to eat all the vegetation that forms a fire hazard this time of year. He goes on about native plant cycles and invasive species and erosion hazards and ground nesting birds and Steve finds himself nodding along and smiling. Tony is good company. He is obviously piling on the charm and Steve wonders where he is hiding the jumpy, angry man he met first.

Steve can smell it first, because he is expecting it, but a few minutes later it obviously hits Tony too. He stops mid-sentence and with his fork half way to his mouth and his nostrils flare. His eyes are wide when he turns to Steve.

“Apple pie?” he whispers.

“Apple crumble,” Steve smiles. “I didn't have time to make pie crust.”

Tony drops his fork and strides over to the oven. Dropping onto his haunches with his hands on the oven window, he inhales deeply with his eyes closed. Between the lounge pants stretching across his ass and the look of pure bliss on Tony's face, Steve shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Then Tony moans obscenely and Steve fumbles to drop a napkin on his lap.

“Yes, Steve, I will marry you,” Tony announces breathlessly to the apple crumble and for a moment it looks like he is going to kiss the oven window. “How long till it's done?” he continues in a normal voice and Steve hopes fervently his blush can't be seen from where Tony is just now getting to his feet.

“About ten minutes,” Steve mumbles to his placemat, hastily shoving a forkful of food in his mouth.

Tony drops heavily into his chair and picks up the dropped fork. Then he leans into Steve's space and looks at him beseechingly.

“Do we have ice cream?”

Steve looks up at him, failing to fight down a smile.

“We do.”

Tony sits back up and pumps his fist in silence.

 

***

If Steve thought the noises Tony made at his oven were bad, they pale in comparison to the near orgasm he has when he is actually eating the apple crumble a la mode. It's very good, Steve knows this on an intellectual level, but all his brain space is occupied by trying (and failing) not to picture fucking those same grunts out of Tony as he's bending him over the kitchen table. He doesn't taste a thing.

“You know,” says Tony conversationally, after he's picked up his plate and licked it clean, forcing Steve to look away or lose it. “If you are trying to get rid of me, you're doing it all wrong.”

“I'm not trying to... You can stay,” Steve fumbles. There is at least a couple of hours left on the dryer, anyway, that thing is getting old. “I can put fresh sheets on my mom's bed.” Oh God, what the fuck is he saying now? He feels his face heat up and knows there's bound to be blotches on his cheeks. Tony's going to know. He can't possibly have missed the way Steve has been devouring him with his eyes, anyway, and now... It's not normal to just invite people to sleep over.

Tony looks a little taken aback, but then he blinks and asks: “When is she coming home?”

“She's...”

Steve can't say it. He can't tell Tony his mother has been dead for years. Because suddenly he sees the house through Tony's eyes, the eyes of a stranger, and he can't explain it. He doesn't know why the house still looks like his mother lives here. It never felt wrong before, but now suddenly it does. It kills his boner with extreme prejudice.

He finally settles on: “She's not.”

He hates the way saying that makes him feel like a weirdo. He's not weird... Well, he is a little weird, he knows that. Other people aren't like him. He himself wasn't like this. Before Afghanistan. But he isn't doing anyone any harm, so it's fine. He's functioning, he has a job and he's not suicidal. He just has had enough upheaval in his life that he likes things calm and predictable now. It's fine.

“Okay, hold up, Soldier Boy. Did you bury her in the back yard?”

It's a joke, but it's not a joke, because Tony looks ready to run. No, more like ready to kick him in the head and then run.

“Okay,” says Tony and it breaks Steve's reverie. He doesn't even know what is okay. Steve's mom not coming home or Tony sleeping in her bed. He looks for a sign in Tony's face that he is humoring the weirdo while looking for a way to escape, but the face is carefully bland now. It hasn't been this bland before and that kind of says it all, doesn't it? Steve wants to punch something, but he can't do that while Tony is watching. Tony's eyes flick to Steve's hand that is twitching with the need to ball into a fist and Steve forces it flat onto the table. He waits for Tony to say something, but the man just gets up and starts clearing the table. He washes the dishes too while Steve sits and stares at his hands wondering what the fuck he is doing. Finally, he manages to get up and grab a dish towel. As he picks up the first glass and starts drying it, Tony throws a quick smile his way.

“You know, I could fix that dishwasher for you if you want.”

“No point,” says Steve, “I don't fill it up fast enough for it to keep it in good working order. Besides... the drought. This uses far less water.”

Tony nods and starts scrubbing the casserole dish with a Brillo Pad.

“The only downside of casseroles,” he mutters, “They're a fucking pain to clean up.”

“You wanted extra cheese and breadcrumbs,” Steve shoots back. “So don't come crying to me now.”

***

They read in relative silence until the dryer is done. It's not uncomfortable, actually, Tony cracks jokes about _Wicked_ frequently enough to keep Steve from fretting. Eventually, Steve is able to relax a little and focus on his own book, even. The upside of this little episode is that it has totally killed the urges that were plaguing him earlier. It's with immense relief that he realizes he has control again, that he can look at Tony and see an attractive man, a very attractive man, but it's not making him sweat and shiver right now.

After the dryer buzzes the end of the cycle, Tony brings back the basket full of warm clothes and starts folding them on the couch. His movements are quick and efficient and Steve can't help but admire the play of the muscles and sinews under the rough tan skin of his lower arms. When Tony has put all his clothes into his laundry sack he drops the basket on the floor and rests his elbows on his thighs as he looks at Steve.

“So,” he says, “Should I stay or should I go?”

Go. The answer should be go. Steve knows this, but he doesn't want to know it. He gets up and opens the sliding glass door. It's completely dark outside and the air is so still not even the grass is rustling. The day's heat hasn't dissipated yet and he knows it's one of those nights where he'll have to turn up the air conditioner to make the upstairs cool enough to fall asleep. That trailer is going to be miserable still. A goat bleats in the distance and Steve smiles as he looks back at Tony, who is now sprawling back on the couch with a small smirk on his face. The relief at having overcome whatever weird spell Tony held over him makes Steve feel magnanimous.

“Stay,” he hears himself say. “I'll go make the bed.”

 

He looks around his mother's bedroom. He dusts and vacuums it maybe every other month, but he doesn't look at it when he does. He hasn't cleaned it out. It's like his mother could walk in any moment and chide him good-naturedly for trespassing on her domain. He knows there is a box in the walk in closet with a couple of pieces of clothing in it, where he left it, because it had made him feel like shit and he told himself he could do it later. But later had never come. He wonders if he should hide it now. But Tony has no business in his mother's closet, so it's not really necessary, he decides. Once he changes the sheets, he checks the en suite bathroom. He quickly swipes some of mom's creams and her toothbrush into a drawer, then flushes the toilet, to see if that will get rid of the gray ring in the bowl. It doesn't and the toilet doesn't fill back up. He swears, but it's too late to fix that now. Tony will have to share the hallway bathroom with him. He's already used his shower, he tells himself, this should be no different. He knows it is, though.

 

He gives Tony plenty of time in the bathroom, before he lets himself go up to check and see if the coast is clear. The bathroom door is open and his mom's bedroom door is shut. He quickly brushes his teeth and speed walks to his own bedroom. There's no generator noise and no screaming guitars and he tells himself he's done the right thing. Even though it feels strange to know someone else is sleeping in the house. He doesn't think he'll sleep well. But he's out in minutes and sleeps like a rock.

 

His bladder wakes him up at 2 am. He shuffles out into the hallway, but stops with his hand on the knob of the bathroom door when he notices a strip of light coming from under it. He's suddenly wide awake. Tony. He swallows and turns to go wait in his bedroom, when the light abruptly vanishes and the door opens and Steve has to press himself to the wall to let Tony by.

But Tony doesn't go by.

He startles almost imperceptibly. Steve, can see it, though, because he's so close. Tony has himself back under control in an instant. He stops right in front of Steve. Steve swallows again. The moonlight through the bathroom window paints Tony all light and dark, harsh planes and angles, like an abstract painting. He looks like he should be cold as moonlight, but Steve can feel the heat radiating off him, he standing so close. Steve's libido comes roaring back and he knows his pajama pants aren't hiding anything. He wants to move away, flee to his room, but he can't. Saliva is pooling in his mouth, his throat refuses to swallow.

Moonlight Tony stares at him for endless seconds. Then he leans in a little.

“You up for it, Steve?” The whisper is rough, as the back of Tony's hand lightly brushes the pajama pants tenting over Steve's straining erection. “Is that for me?”

Steve's up. He knows he hasn't been this up in _years_. Physically. But he isn't... He can't. He's emphatically _not_ up for it. He mutely shakes his head no. Tony tilts his head a little quizzically. His hand brushes along Steve's pants again, a fraction harder this time, but still as light as butterfly wings. Steve stops himself from pushing forward, seeking more friction. The effort makes his legs tremble.

“You in the closet, Steve?” Tony doesn't move that Steve can see, still, his presence feels closer. Steve shakes his head again. He's not. It's not a secret, but it's not something he has talked about in years. It hasn't been relevant.

“You a good Christian boy?” Tony's whisper has an edge to it now, and his fingertips are trailing down Steve's abdomen. The feathery touch makes him shiver. He scrunches his eyes shut, forcing himself to keep breathing through his nose.

He feels a damp breath on his ear.

“Tell me to stop, Steve, and I'll stop.”

Steve is frozen.

Tony repeats himself, hotly breathing the words into his ear. The intimacy is devastating. Steve tries to say stop. He really does. But when Tony's hand slides down with his fingertip stopping just barely under the waistband of his pants, what comes out is a croaking “Please.” He doesn't even know what he is asking for. For Tony to stop or for Tony to do... _something_. Tony doesn't wait to find out.

“Thank fuck,” he swears. “I've been wanting to get my mouth on you for hours.”

Before Steve realizes what is happening, Tony has slid to knees and uncovered Steve's cock. The cool nighttime air does nothing to cool the feverish heat that has pooled in his groin. Tony looks up at him, his eyes invisible in the shade of the sockets and Steve looks back, certain he looks utterly ridiculous, his eyes as wide as saucers and his hands scrabbling faintly at the wall. He can't believe what's happening. Tony can't mean... Tony isn't going to...

Tony does.

He swallows Steve down with a greedy gulp and Steve throws his head back against the wall with a bang, barely noticing the hurt under the unbelievable feeling of the hot, wet suction of Tony's mouth. He cries out like he's been punched in the gut, his knees threaten to buckle. Tony's tongue curls around Steve's shaft , rasping over the frenulum as he starts moving up and down and Steve can feel that down to his toes. Mouth open, he silently pleads with the ceiling while moisture pools in the corner of his eyes and his fists bang the wall. Until a strong grip forces his hand forward and pushes the fist against Tony's head. Steve's eyes fly down, the sight of his dick sliding in and out of Tony's mouth almost undoing him. Tony seems to nod and Steve slowly unclenches his hand, sinking his fingers into the thick dark locks of Tony's hair. The luxurious feeling of it briefly distracts him from his straining cock, but then his hand cups the back of Tony's head and it fits perfectly. Tony moans and pushes back into his hand and Steve can feel the rhythm of it, of what he's doing to Steve. Of how he's sucking on Steve's dick like it's all he's ever wanted.

Steve tries real hard not to move his hips, he knows that isn't done, he remembers that. But Tony grabs his other hand and guides it this head too and now both his hands are winding through the strands of hair and cupping Tony's head and it's perfect for guiding the pace, for drawing Tony into his crotch. When Tony starts pulling his hips forward, though, he can't help it any longer. He starts fucking Tony's face, his own incredible need driving him towards the inevitable. It's like a vision, Tony's head cradled in his hands, Tony's lips tight around his cock and he himself driving himself down Tony's throat. His panting breaths are loud in his ears and it isn't long before he can start feeling the orgasm building at the bottom of his spine. Tony's hands are on Steve's ass, cupping and gripping and it's so, so good.

Steve moans.

He doesn't recognize his voice.

When he reaches his peak and shoots his load down Tony's throat, it physically hurts. His muscles are spasming, every pulse feels like acid, yet his mind is whiting out from pleasure. He collapses as the come down hits, half falling over Tony, who quickly moves aside but doesn't try to catch him.

Horror washes over Steve as his brain comes back online with a clarity he hasn't felt in years. What the hell has he just allowed to happen? What the fuck is he doing? In his mother's house! With a stranger! A goat herd. And what the fuck does it matter? His mother is _dead_.

He scrambles into the bathroom, away from Tony, who grumbles in protest as Steve's foot connects with his thigh. Steve kicks the door shut and reaches up to lock it, before he loses it.

Then he loses it. Sagging with his back against the door, his pants around his thighs, he curls into his knees and feels hot tears spilling over. Like a dam crumbling, there is no stopping it. Great wracking sobs force themselves out of his throat as it hits him. Mom is dead. Bucky is dead. His life is empty. So fucking, fucking _empty_.

He loses all sense of time in the grip of his grief.

When he finally starts noticing the frigid tiles under his bare ass, he belatedly pulls up his pants. It's the beginning of the end of the storm and a few minutes later he hiccups to a halt. Wiping away fresh wells of tears for a few minutes more. He's exhausted. He feels hollow.

Clambering to his feet, he avoids the mirror as he gulps down some water and splashes it over his face. He finally empties his bladder, the sound of the stream hitting water deafening in the silence of the house. He hesitates before he unlocks the door, but he needn't have worried. Tony's door is firmly closed. He slips back into bed and falls into blackness.

 

***  


The next morning is Monday and Steve wakes up feeling at once as if all his nerve endings are scrubbed raw, yet he is light as a feather. He feels fragile. He considers calling in sick. But the last thing he wants is to wander around his mom's house with nothing to do, right now, so he gets up, determined to avoid Tony at all costs. He doesn't even want to know what Tony thinks of him right now, and frankly, he doesn't really care after the aftermath of last night.

But Tony's gone already. The bedroom door is open, his laundry is gone from the couch. Steve drinks his coffee staring out of the back door over the hills, wondering mildly if he's out there with the goats already or holed up in his trailer.

He isn't sorry he goes to work. The kids are great today, they keep him pleasantly distracted and he stays after school with some of the Advanced Art seniors who are putting together 3-D animatronic monsters for the school play. It's a bitch of a project, but these kids are burning so bright, they're almost incandescent.

He gets to the Safeway at the worst possible time, right in the middle of the oh-shit-we-need-something-for-dinner-crowd. It doesn't matter. The hustle and bustle flows right by him as if he isn't even there. He picks up a box of pasta, then puts it back down. He heads for the produce section.

 

It is after six when he pulls into his driveway. The trailer is there, but there is no sign of Tony. The generator is on, though. Just when he lifts the last reusable bag of groceries out of the trunk, Tony steps out of the trailer, cargo shorts and wife beater. He freezes as he sees Steve. Steve stares back at him. He's beautiful. He scares Steve to death. Steve still wants him.

The silence stretches.

Steve is the one who finally breaks it.

“I'm making shepherd's pie.”

Tony nods curtly. He clears his throat.

“I'll be there in 10. After I water the goats.”

“It won't be done for another hour or so.”

Tony's mouth quirks.

“But you have airco.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, this second chapter only took a few months! With that kind of acceleration I'll be cranking out chapters by the minute before you know it! 
> 
> I hope everybody realizes that Steve will get worse before he gets better. But he will get better eventually. Just not in this chapter.
> 
> _________________________________________________

Steve has just finished putting away the groceries and has started peeling the potatoes when Tony walks in. Steve bites down on a flash of panic when Tony suddenly appears in his kitchen, even though he left the door open for that exact purpose.

“You left the door open,” Tony announces, almost as if he feels guilty for just walking in, even though he doesn't look it. “I locked it behind me.”

Steve nods mutely.

“Isn't shepherd's pie more of a winter dish?”

Steve looks at him.

“I developed this sudden craving for casseroles. I don't know why,” Steve deadpans.

Tony smiles. A big smile, that shows the kind of teeth that are the product of a lifetime of expensive dental work. And it transforms his face. For a moment all the jagged edges dissolve and the man looking back at Steve resembles a mischievous boy more than anything. One that is utterly pleased with himself for having gotten Steve to pander to his whims. He has the indelible impression that Tony loves being pandered to, and that seems odd for a goat herd, but he is too busy staring at the way Tony's eyes sparkle to follow that line of thought. Then Tony looks down at his feet, breaking the moment and leaving Steve a little stunned and with the uncomfortable feeling that someone has just jammed a small fishhook under his diaphragm.

“It's a hundred fucking degrees out there, Steve,” Tony says with his face back under control.

“Yeah, well,” says Steve, resuming his potato peeling, “good thing I have airco.”

“Indeed, it is.” It sounds like Tony might be smiling again, but Steve doesn't dare look up and check.

 

When the shepherd's pie is in the oven, Tony goes and takes another shower and Steve tries to focus on Tom Clancy again. It doesn't work. He's horny and he's scared. Last night was a disaster in every sense of the word, yet it's as if it happened years ago and he can think back on it, shrugging and saying, “yeah, that happened,“ without any of the anguish that ought to accompany a memory of falling apart like that. Like it was a totally reasonable price to pay for getting Tony's mouth on his dick. As hard as he is getting just thinking about that mouth, maybe it was. It freaks him out a little. He remembers how scared he was when Tony propositioned him, and he remembers the utter devastation he felt afterward, but he can't make himself feel those things right now. It's as if they happened to someone else. But Tony sucking him off, _that_ he can still feel. Every fistful of his hair, every curl of his tongue...

Steve tries to breathe some sense into his pounding heart.

It's wrong, he knows it's wrong. This is not what he should be focusing on. He is damaged goods, he knows that, and sex with random strangers is not a coping mechanism he should be latching on to. His mother wouldn't approve and his therapist wouldn't approve. His mom is dead, though, and that thought hurts, but not as badly as he expects it to, and he hasn't been to see his therapist in a over a year. He's gotta stop thinking about sex with Tony, it's going to backfire and end in disaster and Steve knows he doesn't have the ability to deal with that right now. The way he lost it last night is ample proof of that. He's surprised Tony has even let himself be bribed to be in Steve's company again today by a simple casserole and a shower. Not that he minds very much that Tony is apparently that easy. Steve is wishing things were easy for him too.

When he hears the shower turn off he jumps up to busy himself with setting the table.

Dinner is... okay. Steve feels awkward and torn, and has to occasionally tamp down his urges, but Tony is good at filling silences, even if he eyes Steve sharply from time to time. By the time they're done, Steve feels almost back to normal.

They do dishes. Steve washes, but when he tries to hand Tony a dripping glass, he doesn't take it. Tony looks pinched and nods sharply at the drying rack, so Steve puts the glass down slowly. Tony snatches it up and dries it vigorously, seemingly completely absorbed in the task. Steve puts the next glass directly into the rack.

After the dishes, instead of picking up _Wicked_ when Steve goes back to Tom Clancy, Tony looks quizzically at the TV.

“Does it work?”

Steve follows his gaze to the dead screen. It broke last year, and he hasn't gotten around to getting a new one. Or, more accurately, the idea of getting a new one had paralyzed him.

“No.”

“Mind if I see if I can fix it?'

There is a restless energy emanating from Tony that puts Steve on edge and he wants to say no. He wants Tony to sprawl on the couch like he did last night and lazily bitch about his book, but he can see that that isn't going to happen. He balks at anyone messing with the TV, it's his mom's TV, and... And fixing it is much better than replacing it. If it would work again, he wouldn't have to think about replacing it anymore.

“What happens if you can't fix it?”

Steve doesn't want it looking any different. There is a strong need for it to remain the same.

“I highly doubt that that is going to happen, these things aren't that complicated.” Tony eyes Steve and adds after a second: “But if I can't then I'll put it back together and it will still be the same.”

Steve nods.

“There is a toolbox in the garage.”

Tony snorts derisively.

“Right. Your mom's, I'm sure. I think I have better tools than that. I'm just gonna go grab them.”

He vanishes out the door and misses how Steve doubles over with hurt. Steve grinds his teeth against the rage that threatens overwhelm him just because Tony scorned his mom's toolbox. How dare he! It's his mom's and-- and-- And he is being irrational. This is ridiculous. His mom's toolbox isn't a sacred relic. It doesn't even have a whole lot in it. Tony's toolbox probably _is_ a whole lot better. Really, why is he losing it over an insult to a toolbox? Steve forces himself to breathe in, and it's shaky, but he starts feeling better when he lets the breath out slowly. He does it again. Slowly he unfolds and leans back in his chair. He's alright. He's going to be fine. He's not melting down over a fucking toolbox.

He still flinches when Tony barges in again with a toolbox that is admittedly far fancier than Steve's mom's. Tony eyes him oddly, but says nothing.

All the pent up energy seems to leave Tony once he's pulled the TV away from the wall and has opened it up. He even hums a little as parts of the TV start spreading on the floor around him. But now it's Steve who doesn't know what to do with himself. His brain goes _wrongwrongwrong_ with every bit of wiring that comes out of the thing and he's on the verge of telling Tony to stop, just _stop_ , at least a dozen times, but he doesn't. Because it isn't rational. And he's damned if he is going to have a panic attack over a broken TV, or a toolbox, or... or whatever. He does a lot of breathing.

He's too restless to read, now, and doesn't know what to do, but in the end he grabs his sketchbook. He doodles for a bit, just random curves and lines, until he finds himself sketching Tony with tiny screwdrivers sticking out of his mouth and little furrows between his brows as he stares into the innards of Steve's mom's TV. It's actually not a bad drawing. It'd be better if he could put more detail in the eyes, though, he'd have to do a close up. He remembers the smile earlier this evening in his kitchen and wonders, but he doesn't believe he could capture that.

“What do you do, Steve?” Tony's voice breaks into his contemplation and Steve's head jerks up. He searches for words.

“Eh... I teach Art at the high school.”

Tony isn't looking at him, still absorbed in the TV.

“But you were military, before, right?”

“Army.” It's easier when Tony isn't looking at him, Steve finds. He's not sure he would have answered otherwise. “Afghanistan,” he adds after a pause.

“Ah,” Tony mutters softly, “ _That_ fucking shithole.” Steve hears him anyway. He waits for Tony to elaborate, but it doesn't happen. Eventually he goes back to his drawing. Fuck it, he's going to try the smile anyway. He can always burn it later.

 

He doesn't quite capture the smile, but he finds a measure of peace in trying. It's close to 11 when Tony mumbles something that Steve doesn't quite catch. He looks up, lifting an eyebrow.

Tony takes the screwdrivers out of his mouth.

“I said, I need a couple of parts, but they're easy ones. I'll go down to Radioshack and ACE Hardware in the morning. There's nothing more I can do tonight, so I'm going up.” He winces a little as he rises out of his cobbler's pose and stretches. Steve's gaze flies to the line of his torso, the muscles moving under his shirt.

“You want it pushed back in?” Tony asks and for one mortifying second Steve has no idea what he is talking about as his mind goes places where he had decided it shouldn't go. Then he realizes Tony means the TV and yes, that definitely has to go back against the wall. It's... wrong this way. Wrong enough to kill the blush threatening to spill over his face.

“Please,” he manages.

 

He gives Tony plenty of time to get ready for bed, before he goes up. He still checks: the bathroom is empty, the door to his mom's room is closed. Coast is clear. He takes a quick shower. Once in his bedroom he considers sleeping in just his briefs, because the night is still warm, but it doesn't feel right with someone else in the house. So he quickly shucks them and gets his pajama pants on. He is contemplating a T-shirt versus his pajama tops when he hears a noise behind him. Panic rises instantaneously as Steve whirls around to face his doorway. Tony is leaning indolently against the doorjamb, arms lightly crossed and a smirk on his face. Steve tries to get his breathing under control. Stand down, he tells himself. Stand down. It's just Tony. The panic doesn't dissipate so much as transforms into a different kind of anxiety as he calms down enough to notice the way Tony's eyes are roving over Steve's body. He clutches the shirt he's holding a little tighter to his chest.

“No need to put that on on my account,” Tony finally breaks the silence.

Steve has no words. Tony shouldn't interested, couldn't possibly be interested after that scene last night. But Tony _looks_ interested.

“Listen,” Tony says when it becomes clear Steve isn't going to say anything, “This is probably an epically bad idea. But I am not exactly known for my carefully considered decisions anyway.” There is a small shrugs and he straightens up marginally. Steve's gaze is riveted on the other man.

“You obviously have issues that I am not going to touch with a ten foot pole,” Tony continues. “I got my own shit to deal with, and I got no time for yours. But here is what I am thinking. You're hot. Like, ridiculously so.” He grimaces a little, as if life's not fair. “I'm hot. Hot enough, anyway. I want your dick. Or your ass. You want my dick. Or at least my mouth. This doesn't have to be complicated, if we don't make it complicated. We have sex. We _both_ get off. Maybe do it a couple more times if we like it. We move on”. He locks his gaze with Steve's. “What do you think?”

Steve can't think. His mind has gone completely blank, his blood is roaring in his ears. He can only look at Tony for a moment. And then his mouth floods with saliva and three hundred thoughts crash in simultaneously. It's bound to be bullshit. It's a lie that it doesn't have to be complicated, everything is complicated, especially Steve, but, oh dear god, he wants this to be true. How much he wants it scares him. And letting Tony that close scares him. Tony is a pushy, prodding, walking disaster, who has no fucking clue what he is doing to Steve and wouldn't care even if he did. And Steve wants him to do it to him. He wants Tony to push through his boundaries, to annihilate his objections, to shatter his peace of mind. He does, yet he doesn't. But he wants Tony's hands on him again so bad that he knows he's fighting a losing battle with his rational mind.

Tony wets his lips and Steve promptly drops the t-shirt he was holding. This is apparently an invitation for Tony to walk, no, prowl forward and crowd into Steve's space. Steve wants to do something, anything, to show Tony that he's an active participant, that he can take control, but he can't. He's frozen on the spot, quivering with equal parts anticipation and apprehension. He's not capable of taking that step, he realizes with a stab of resignation, it really does take a pushy asshole like Tony for anything to happen with Steve.

Tony trails his fingers down Steve's torso, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

Behind him Gwenna ponderously gets off Steve's bed and leaves the room.

“I'm not sure if I should lick every inch of you or if we should just skip straight to the fucking. I'm really torn,” whispers Tony, his breath hot on Steve's chest. And as much as Steve's dick is on board with the licking, to make it last and last, he knows he'd be tormented by second thoughts, and third thoughts and thirty-fourth thoughts. It wouldn't work. He needs it fast, and hard, or he's going to chicken out.

“Just fuck me,” he croaks. “Please.”

Tony's grin is positively evil. “You got it, soldier boy.” He places a hand on Steve's chest and pushes him back towards the bed. When he hits the edge, his knees buckle and he sits down with a thump. Tony straddles his legs, looming over him, one hand on his shoulder, still sporting that grin.

“Lube? Condom?” he inquires.

Steve looks up helplessly.

“I don't have any.”

“Good thing I came prepared then.” Tony digs out several foil wrapped packages out of his pocket and tosses them on the bed next to Steve. “How do you want to do this? Gonna open yourself up for me? Or you want me to do it?”

“You...” he whispers. It's the only option that isn't going to freeze him in his tracks.

“Right,” says Tony. “On your hands and knees then.”

Steve scrambles onto the bed, only to notice that Tony has yanked his pajama bottoms off as he was doing so. He feels cold and exposed and is about to run, when he feels the bed dip behind him as Tony settles a proprietary hand on his ass. The hot hand print anchors him, and when Tony adds the other hand and starts kneading the globes of his ass, all thoughts of fleeing evaporate. It's pathetic how good this feels already.

“God fucking Christ, Steve, you are a work of art.” Tony digs his fingers deeper and Steve reflexively pushes back, wanting the touch. He thinks he feels a whisper of Tony's pajama clad erection brush against his crack and that stokes the fire even more. His dick is filling rapidly and his heart speeds up.

“Look at you,” croons Tony, “you're so fucking eager. I love how eager you are. But I bet you're tight. I bet you're _real_ tight. Gotta open you up, babydoll.” He spreads Steve's cheeks apart.

Steve braces for a cold squirt of lube or a slippery finger. Therefore, he is completely unprepared for the warm slide of Tony's tongue over his rim. He gasps and his elbows almost buckle. There is a fleeting notion that Tony shouldn't be doing this, that it's not hygienic, even if Steve has just showered, but the wet heat of it feels too fucking amazing to voice any of that and Steve shamefully submits to the incredible feeling of Tony's tongue teasing and caressing his hole. The tickle of Tony's Van Dyke against his balls is exquisite. He loses all sense of time, lost in sensation, relishing every lick, until he notices he's dropped down onto his elbows, ass in the air and his cock weeping profusely. Whimpering.

God, he's ready. He's so ready.

“Tony...” he breathes.

Tony lifts his face and Steve can hear him wipe his his face on his wifebeater as he shuffles closer on his knees. A foil package rips.

“Gonna see if you're ready for me yet.” Tony's voice is a little breathless.

Steve wants to tell him to just hurry the fuck up, he's more than ready and his ass is now wet and cold. But then Tony slides two fingers into him and starts scissoring them and all words get swallowed in a moan.

“God, the sounds you make, Steve. I could listen to them all day. I could fuck them out of you all day. Goats be screwed, school be screwed, just you and me and a Costco-sized box of condoms. Whaddayasay?”

Steve is busy pushing back against Tony's fingers, reveling in the feel of them jammed up his ass, but wanting, needing _more_. He can barely parse what Tony is saying. Frustration flares into irritation.

“Jesus, Tony, will you shut up and fuck me already?!”

“Oh, honey, I thought you'd never ask.” He can practically hear the smirk in Tony's voice. But then there's another foil packet being opened and before he fully realizes what is happening he feels the head of Tony's cock against his entrance. He pushes back, needing this _now_.

“Nah-ah,” admonishes Tony, using his knees to spread Steve's legs a little wider and even that stretch feels good, as if Steve is even more open, even more helpless now. Then Tony slides in in one fell swoop and Steve drops his head on his forearms and keens. The feeling of Tony inside him is at once overwhelming and grounding and so very, very good. He can't believe he hasn't done this in way too many years, can't even recall the last time he had anyone's dick up his ass, but he knows it can't have felt like this or he would have remembered it.

Judging by the litany of curses behind Steve, Tony is having his own somewhat religious experience. He pulls back slowly, then snaps his hips forward again, causing Steve to gasp again and almost lose his balance. He braces himself and takes it, every pounding thrust a small epiphany of how utterly lost he's been. It goes from amazing to astounding to too much. Too close, too scary, he feels too vulnerable. And _still_ he hasn't come. He needs to come, teetering on the precipice for so long is fucking him up and he's afraid of what's going to happen in his brain if he doesn't get to come soon. He begs Tony to touch him, but Tony refuses.

“I'm coming first. Not letting you come and run again.”

Steve groans. But it somehow helps to know what the plan is. The fear of flying into a panic recedes somewhat and the experience of getting nailed by Tony goes back to 'amazing'. Still, he's sobbing with need by the time Tony's relentless rhythm starts stuttering and Steve can feel the man's cock pulsing in his ass. It's almost enough for him to come untouched, _almost_. He grits his teeth as Tony slides out, dick still somewhat hard and before he can register what's happening, Tony manhandles him onto his back and swallows down Steve's cock. He shouts and arches up into the wet heat and comes immediately down Tony's throat.

For the second time in 24 hours.

Steve finds himself gasping at the ceiling when he finally comes down, Tony a heavy weight by his side, his head about level with Steve's chest.

“Godfuckingdammit,” Tony pants, heartfelt. Steve has no words, not even curses, so they lay there just breathing heavily for a while. Tony's head lolling against Steve's rib cage, one of his hands spread possessively on the inside of Steve's thigh.

Eventually the hand squeezes his thigh and Tony mumbles sleepily: “You can run now.”

Steve wouldn't be able to even if he wanted to. He's too high on endorphins to even consider it.

“'Smybed,” he mutters finally.

“Right,” says Tony, “So it is. I'll be going then.”

Steve doesn't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing as Tony stumbles clumsily out of Steve's double bed, but he is too tired to care much. He's asleep before Tony has left the room.

***

Steve wakes up at 5 am with a full blown anxiety attack. For a good fifteen minutes he thinks he is going to die, until Gwenna pushes her head under his arms and he remembers to exhale and exhale and exhale and then inhale more evenly. Then it slowly subsides. He gives up on going back to sleep and makes his way to the shower. He stands under the hot water for a good twenty minutes, drought be damned, while he replays what happened last night. His ass his sore, but he doesn't care about that. He feels like shit with the come down of the adrenalin from his little episode, but under that he feels sated in a way that only a good fuck can accomplish. And he feels more... alert, for lack of a better word. Steve wonders what has happened to his fragile inner peace and how the hell he can get it back, before he flies apart completely.

 

There is no trace of Tony when he gets downstairs.

 

 


End file.
